


Till Death Do Us Part

by nivalistic



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Death, Flirting, Internal Conflict, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Tragedy, au where you get a mark on the day that youre going to die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nivalistic/pseuds/nivalistic
Summary: George’s honeyed words send Dream to a high that he’s never felt before. He’s lightheaded, his heart pounding so loud that he’s convinced George can hear it through the phone. Have you always been like this, Dream wonders with closed eyes, and have I just missed it? Or is it death’s raw grasp, forcing you to shed away your facade until you’re nothing but what lies at your core?Dream and George both know that they’re going to die today. Together, they decide to make the most out of their last day.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream wakes up to find something on his hand.

Dream wakes up to a phone call.

The ringing is abrasive on his ears, disrupting the pillowy silence of the night. He considers ignoring it and returning to the comfort of sleep, just like he does with everything else during the incomprehensible hours of the night. But something—a voice at the back of his lethargic thoughts—tells him to check who’s calling.

He tugs the twisted bedsheets off of himself. His eyes, his hands, his whole body is weighed down by drowsiness. He unhurriedly reaches for his phone, not quite caring if he takes too long and the call goes to voicemail. When he pulls the phone to his face, he’s blinded by its bright screen. It illuminates something on his right palm. Squinting, he works out what it is: lines and spirals, a small symbol colored in red.

It’s his death mark.

His heart stops. His half-asleep nerves are kicked into overdrive. Time’s smooth, unnoticeable flow shifts into the tangible phone vibrations that run closer and faster between each ring. They tease his hands, as if time itself was making fun of him. He drops his phone in shock, accidentally accepting the call as he picks it back up.

An unbearably cheery woman pipes, “Hello! I’m calling about your car insurance. Is this—”

“Fuck off.” Dream rips the phone from his ear, hanging up rudely. He throws his phone across his bed with enough force to break it. His hands shake out of anger, disbelief, fear. The caller didn’t know that Dream is going to die today. She probably wouldn’t even care if he told her. Fuck her.

He lays there, sweaty sheets thrown off, tangled thoughts running wild. He’s seen death marks before, viral photos on Twitter and brief Youtube videos. No matter what platform the death marks were on, they were almost always the account’s last post.  _ Is that what’ll be left of me, _ Dream wonders,  _ nothing but a graveyard of Youtube videos? _

The existential dread that used to so infrequently bother him now courses through his blood, overtaking every single inch of his body. Death has always felt so far away. It’s something that old people should be worried about, not celebrity streamers in the prime of their life. Its imminence pecks at his mind like a vulture, and he’s afraid that there’ll be nothing left of him if he leaves it any longer. 

He forcefully shuts his eyes, trying his hardest to go back to sleep. Maybe, just maybe he’ll wake up and find that it was all just a bad dream. But sleep eludes him, dancing out of reach whenever he feels like he can catch it. It’s a cruel, unwinnable game of tag. After losing again and again, he finally resolves to get up.

Dream sits up, reaching for his phone and turning it back on. Immediately, he’s barraged with blinding information. _ This is too much, _ he thinks, once again feeling the urge to toss his phone as far as he can. He reigns in his instinct, though, and fumbles around until the brightness is turned down.

He first notices the time: 12:26 AM. 26 minutes lost, sands of time in an hourglass that will never again be turned. He sighs.

Then, he begins to process the messages that he’s received. Most of them are pings from members of the SMP. He scrolls through them out of habit, taking mental notes of who to respond to and in what order. 

“you should hop onto my stream tomorrow lol” 

“Hey big man check this one out”

“When's the next time you're logging onto the server? Trying to plan something” 

They’re the same messages that he always receives from them, as if everything’s normal. As if he isn’t dying today. Another sigh escapes him, knowing that he won’t be able to write everyone the thank-you’s and goodbye’s that they deserve; his time is better spent trying to make sense out of it all. He almost turns off his phone as he nears the end of his notifications, but something catches him by surprise.

A text from George, just a couple hours ago: “Call me.”

Dream’s breath hitches, thoughts piling on top of one another. George rarely uses anything but Discord to message him, much less to demand a phone call.  _ What happened? Is he in trouble? Did I do something wrong? _

Dream’s groggy mind is fogged over by to-do’s and concerns, leaving him sightless in his forest of thoughts. The trees are dense and the canopy hides any light that would provide clarity. Permeating fog makes it impossible to see anything more than a few feet away. He wanders through the trees, seeing bits and pieces of everything in wisps of the fog: his family smiling at him proudly, the laughter he shared with childhood friends, all the lively time spent filming videos with Sapnap and George… 

_ George, _ Dream breathlessly thinks. There’s something about George that he can’t put his finger on. It lives in the way that George makes him laugh endlessly, an infectious laugh that spreads to George and feeds back into itself. It lives in the way that his joke-flirts always seem to hit a nerve in George’s heart, converging upon annoyance and fondness. It lives in the way that he can’t help but breathe in the effervescence surrounding George, notice the raw beauty in the wind rushing through his house, and feel unabashedly happy. The fog wraps itself around him and seems to scream louder and louder,  _ George, George, George…  _

_ Ding! _ A sharp phone notification pulls Dream out of his head. “What the hell?” he mutters to himself. Rubbing his temples, he puts his phone down. He’s never thought about anything—no, anyone—so intensely. He gets out of bed and works his way towards the bathroom, figuring that a shower could help him pull some of his thoughts together. Texts and calls can wait.

He’s careful not to look too closely at his mark. Not out of denial, but out of fear. He’s afraid that even acknowledging it will end him immediately. It’s a childish belief, he knows, but he doesn’t care.  _ I’ll just look at it later, _ he thinks.

He strips down and turns the water as hot as it goes. When he steps in, it almost feels like fire. He imagines that it’s burning away all of the fluff in his mind and carrying it away with the steam. Unburdened by intense emotion for the first time today, he cautiously organizes and analyzes his thoughts. There are a million days he could spend tying up the loose ends of life, but he has less than twenty-four hours. He strings and restrings together an itinerary, finally deciding on one as he turns off the scalding water. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

With clean clothes on, he returns to his room. As he takes a seat on the edge of his bed, Patches rubs up against his legs. Dream reaches down and scratches her neck, silently reminded of his mortality when he finds himself using his marked hand to pet her. “Don’t worry,” he whispers to her, “my sister will take care of you when I’m gone.” She meows back at him, nuzzling affectionately before heading off.

When he picks his phone up again, he wants to call his parents. He would give anything to hear his parents tell him that everything’s alright. But he knows that they’re sleeping, and waking them up to deliver the news would burden them more than he wants to. He’s also tempted to call Sapnap, but realizes that it would create the same problem that he’s avoiding with his parents. His plans for the day apparently have more holes than he’d like.  _ If I can’t call them, who should I call? Who would even be up— _

George.

The text suddenly comes crashing down on him, two simple words that he had shoved down the drain during his shower. “Call me.” He knows George all too well. George wouldn’t send that kind of text unless he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Dream pulls up George’s phone number, but he hesitates before pressing the call button. He almost feels paralyzed by it.  _ Ugh, what am I thinking. It’s just George. Same person I’ve talked to every single day. _

He reclines back on his bed and pushes the call button. It only rings once before George answers.

“Hi Dream,” George says. 

Dream immediately recognizes the strain in George’s voice. It’s a sign of worry, one that Dream hasn’t heard in forever. He clears his throat, hoping that he can mask his own anxieties. “Hey George.”

There’s a brief pause. Then, George presses, “You don’t sound right. What’s wrong?”

“You’re the one who told me to call. What happened to you?” Though there’s genuity in his statement, all that Dream wants is to talk about anything but himself.

“Well, I asked first, so you have to answer first,” George fires back, his tone a shade lighter.

Dream lets out an unexpected laugh. A short-lived laugh comes out of George, too, and Dream can’t help but grin. Even if it’s forced right now, he loves to make George laugh. To hear George feel something real. He’ll miss this banter between them, the back-and-forths that they spin whenever given the chance. With a bittersweet smile, Dream answers, “I’m not sure that you want to know.”

George lets out a sigh. “You’re stubborn.”

“Yep. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“Well,” George hesitates, “it’s actually quite serious, so now I feel bad for, um, lightening the mood.”

Dream’s forehead creases in worry. “Serious?”

“Yeah. I got my, um,” George swallows, “you know. The, um—” 

“George, spit it out!”

“I got my mark today.”

Dream freezes up, eyes widening. When he opens his mouth, his words are just as clumsy as George’s. “I—mine appeared. Today, too. My—my mark.”

“No,” George frantically sputters, “No, no, not both of us. That’s not right. It can’t be.” 

Neither of them talk for a minute, both trying to process the mess that life has strewn between them. They feel each other’s uncertainty without having to say it. The knowing silence is comforting, almost. It speaks multitudes more than what could ever be put into words.

Dream finally breaks the melancholy silence. With a deep breath, he asks, “Well, what now?”

“I’m not sure. I already drove and saw my family. We ate together and talked. I don’t know if there’s anything else I have to do here.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have anything else to do?”

“I mean, there’s a lot I want to do. But…” George’s voice trails off. 

Dream carefully parses his words before speaking. “Isn’t there anywhere you wanna visit? Like, I don’t know, your old school or something?”

“Not really.” There’s another brief silence. “Honestly, I’m more interested in what you wanna do.” George’s words come with a sincerity that Dream has never heard before. 

Dream’s face reddens. “Me? You’re—you’re interested in me?”

“Yeah, you!” George says brightly. When he realizes what he’s saying, he hastily amends it with, “Like, not  _ you _ you, but what you’re gonna do today.” 

Dream’s face is burning. He tries to hold together the composure in his voice. “Um, I’m going to try to see my family. They’re asleep now, because they’re early birds and they always go to sleep before eight, but they should be up in a few hours because my mom likes to run early in the morning before she eats breakfast and—” Dream cuts himself off. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“It’s okay. I like to hear you ramble,” George says softly. "I want to hear whatever you have to say, Dream." 

George’s honeyed words send Dream to a high that he’s never felt before. He’s lightheaded, his heart pounding so loud that he’s convinced George can hear it through the phone.  _ Have you always been like this, _ Dream wonders with closed eyes,  _ and have I just missed it? Or is it death’s raw grasp, forcing you to shed away your facade until you’re nothing but what lies at your core? _

“I want to see you.” The words tumble out of Dream’s mouth before he can think about them. 

“I want to see you, too.” George’s response is immediate. 

“Then buy a plane ticket,” Dream says, half-joking.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.” George hangs up before Dream can say anything.

Flights are dangerous for people on their last day. He doesn’t want George to risk a plane crash on such a fleeting whim. Dream realizes that he’s volatile with this mark, its power running unbridled through every single syllable that he speaks. He’s drunk on his mortality, and all of his words are hastily-made gambles.

But he doesn’t care if his heedless ideas make the world crash in on him. He doesn’t care if death itself is hunting him down. He doesn’t care about any of it, because his world used to be in monochrome, but now it’s in technicolor and bursting with a million different shades and hues. He’s going to see George. In-person. He’ll get to see the wind run through George’s unfairly perfect hair, gaze into his deep brown eyes swirled with honey, and hear his mellifluous voice unfiltered by a computer microphone. 

And that’ll be what makes death worth it.


	2. Papers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream remembers something when he tries to clean his room.

Dream: you’re kidding

Dream: you won’t buy a plane ticket

George: Lmao

_George sent an image._

It’s a simple photo of a plane ticket gripped in George’s hand. Dream zooms in on it, picking out as many details as he can. The flight’s departure time is soon, just under half an hour.

Dream: how the fuck did you get a ticket so fast

Dream: and for a flight that leaves so soon

George: I have connections

The next thing that Dream notices in the photo is the airline: TurboLines. His eyes widen. _What the fuck?_ His fingers fly across his phone keyboard at the speed of light.

Dream: george

Dream: you did NOT book a flight

Dream: with turbolines

Dream: of all airlines you could choose

Dream: just to get to florida

George: Well

George: Maybe I did

Dream: why

George: They have the fastest flights

George: I’m gonna be there in just a few hours

George: A normal flight would be more than 10

Dream: but it’s turbolines

Dream: everyone knows that like half of their passengers are marked

Dream: and that too many of their planes crash

George: So?

Dream: “So?”

Dream: SO?????

Dream: you could actually die

Dream: you’re out of your mind

George: What can I say

George: You drive me crazy ;)

Dream: what does that mean

George: Boarding the flight now

George: See you <3

Dream: stay safe

Dream’s chest feels light and fluttery as he stares at the text heart. George hasn’t always sent those, has he? They’ve been exchanged during their flirty banter, sure, but this feels different. It’s not an energized post-stream conversation or a thread of joking tweets. It’s a decision that could result in George’s death. Mortality weighs down their situation, yet George’s words are light and carefree, a fresh breath of air. They’re almost enough to sweep Dream into the sky, weightless, defying gravity.

Lightheaded, Dream thinks, _I’m going insane._

He turns off his phone. Immediately, his room is plunged into darkness; he hasn’t bothered to turn on any lights, nor does he have the desire to. The blinds on his windows have been left open, but the dull stars do little to help him see. Everything is silent, the springtime calls of wildlife having run elsewhere in the summer’s heat. The entire room smells of overwhelmingly stale air. As his eyes adjust to the dark, he stares at the unpainted patches on his ceiling and the cracks in the drywall. Dirty dishes and crushed energy drink cans from caffeine-fueled filming sessions pile up on his desk. Crumpled papers litter the floor, ripped-out pages from notebooks and incoherent thoughts scribbled during late nights. 

There’s never been a time when his house could be considered clean. He’s grown accustomed to it, stepping over the ruin that accumulates night after night. The ubiquitous mess is a part of who he is; it consumes both the space around him and the space inside his head. It’s a comforting chaos.

Now, though, he feels conscious of the mess. Not because he can’t stand it, but because it reflects on him. A part of him wants his house to look presentable, just in case George ends up visiting. Nothing wrong with wanting it to look nice, right? He figures that he doesn’t have anything better to do with his time, seeing that everyone he wants to talk to is either asleep or on a plane. And by sorting out the physical mess, maybe he can sort out some of his mental mess as well.

When he stands up, the first thing that catches his eye is a piece of paper right by his foot. He doesn’t quite remember what’s written on any of the papers, nor does he remember ripping them out. His memory has always been a bit spotty, though, so he’s not surprised. _They’re probably just bad video ideas,_ he reasons, _since that’s all I ever write in my notebooks._

There are so many papers that he’s tempted to throw them out without a second thought, but curiosity gets the better of him. He picks a ball of paper off the ground and uncrumples it, accidentally ripping its edges as he does so. It’s a standard-sized sheet of notebook paper, but the few words scribbled onto it span multiple lines each. As a consequence of one too many energy drinks, his handwriting is almost illegible. The lack of light in the room doesn’t help, so he’s forced to work through it letter by letter: I T-H-I-N-K I L-O-V—

Dream takes a step back. His eyes widen, his breathing quickens, his whole body freezes. He feels like reality just shot him through the head. He loses his grip on the paper. It flutters to the floor innocently, unaware of its magnitude. _No,_ he thinks, _I couldn’t have written that._ He scrambles for an answer, a rationalization, anything. _I must’ve misread it._ Filled with disbelief, he leans over and lifts the delicate paper to his eyes once more. And there they are, scrawled in red ink, the words that he has no recollection of:

_I think I love you, George._

And suddenly, it comes back to him. 

* * *

A month ago, a late night stream. Dream sits at his desk, the 4 AM moonlight blocked by his pulled-down blinds. His monitors hum loudly, their colorful pixels just barely illuminating his room. He has Minecraft open on one monitor, George’s stream on another monitor. He, George, and Sapnap have just finished beating the game with their latest mod. Now, their characters run around an empty desert as they make some end-of-stream small talk.

“This was really fun,” George says with a smile. Dream can’t help but glance at George’s facecam, feeling a little embarrassed—if chat saw him looking at George every few seconds, they would never let it go.

“We should play this one again,” Sapnap suggests. “It got you and Dream flirting a lot, and you know how much chat loves that.”

Dream snorts. “Sure. You should bring Karl next time.”

“Hey!” Sapnap shouts, punching Dream’s character. 

“You know I’m right! You two would be practically making out.” Dream punches back at Sapnap’s character, getting them into a fistfight.

“That’d probably be fun,” George chips in. “You should write that down, playing this mod with Karl. So that we remember it.”

“Sure.” Dream delivers one last punch to Sapnap, killing his character. With the satisfaction of having won the fight, he sets his computer mouse aside and picks up the notebook on his desk. As he flips it open to an empty page, he offhandedly says, “I write down all my ideas in a notebook anyways.”

“You have a notebook? Why haven’t you told me?” George asks.

Grabbing a red pen, Dream gives a small laugh. “Why would I tell you that? Like, what would you even do with that information?” In a mockingly high-pitched tone, he says, “Ooh, George, I write down all my ideas in a notebook, aren’t I so cool?”

“People who write in notebooks are actually cool, I think. I wouldn’t be able to write in a notebook. I’d write one page and then never touch it again,” George responds. He mindlessly clicks away at Minecraft, towering up his character into the sky.

Sapnap yawns and says, “You know, George, he hasn’t told you about that notebook for a reason.”

“What reason?” George looks up from his screen.

“It’s because he writes all his love letters to you in that notebook.” Sapnap’s words are colored with mischief.

George rolls his eyes. “Nah, Dream wouldn’t do that. Right, Dream?”

Dream leans back in his chair and spins the red pen between his fingers. Another day of being on George’s stream, another day of pandering to his fanbase. He decides to play along with Sapnap’s joke, keeping his voice deadpan as he states, “I actually wrote a five-page love confession to you yesterday.”

“What?” George stares at his camera and tilts his head.

“I’ll give you five hundred—no, a thousand dollars if you read it on stream,” Sapnap offers.

Not yet ready to let go of the joke, Dream grins. “Alright, alright.” He ruffles the pages of his notebook loudly enough for his mic to pick up on it. Staring at the empty page, he starts off, “Dear George, today, I couldn’t stop looking at that selfie you sent me.”

“You’re kidding. Calm down, chat, he’s just kidding.” Annoyance fills George’s voice. 

Dream exaggerates his own voice, trying to make it obvious that he’s joking. “I couldn’t help but smile, because everything about that photo was perfect. The way that your eyes shone. The way that a slight smile tugged at your lips. The way that the sun laid itself upon your hair.” 

“Dream, stop. Actually.” If they weren’t joking, Dream would think that George sounds desperate.

Even though it’s improv, the words flow off of Dream’s tongue like a waterfall. They almost paint themselves onto the blank page as he continues, “Everything about you was beautiful. And I thought to myself, maybe this is the person that I want to…” He closes his eyes, fond words escaping his mouth before he can think about them. “I don’t know, spend the rest of my life with. Wake up next to in the mornings and cook awful dinners with and share sleepless sunrises with. And I thought, George, I think I lov—” 

Dream stops himself abruptly. His eyes fly wide open and he jolts up straight in his chair. These words are too raw, too real. He didn’t know that he had these words welling up inside of himself, climbing up his throat and clawing for their release. He’s accidentally shown a window into his heart, an all-too transparent view into his head. It’s a painfully honest confession, emerging anew from what was meant to be a harmless joke. Not only an admission of desire to George, but a realization about his own self. In front of hundreds of thousands of people. His face begins to burn. _Fuck._

Before an uncomfortable silence can settle into the voice channel, Sapnap interrupts in a teasing voice, “George, are you blushing?”

Dream immediately looks up from his notebook to glimpse George’s face. It’s just the slightest bit pinker than normal, tinged with a pastel innocence. Dream bites his lip, imagining what it’d be like to softly brush those pink cheeks with his fingertips. Before he can finish playing out the fantasy in his head, he drops his gaze back to his notebook. _God, what’s wrong with me today?_

“I’m not blushing!” George insists, throwing his hands up in the air.

Sapnap laughs. “Pretty sure you are. Right, Dream?”

Dream gives a half-hearted, “Yeah, George, your face is so red right now.” He stares at the blank page in his notebook. Somehow, he feels betrayed by its emptiness. The page taunts him, begging to be written in.

“You guys are just weird.” George tugs at the collar of his hoodie, glancing off to the side. When nobody responds to him, he says, “Um, this is probably a good place to end the stream. I think we’re all tired.” He shows the front perspective of his character, which jumps up and down as it punches at the air. “Bye guys! Thanks for the fun stream tonight!”

“Bye!” Sapnap shouts cheerily.

“Bye,” Dream says blankly. He watches as George’s stream turns to black. Normally, they all stay and chat after streams, but Dream wastes no time. Before anyone else can get a single word in, he says, “Going to bed. Night.” He disconnects from the voice channel.

Immediately, his monitor lights up with a notification. It’s a DM from Sapnap, which he expected—Sapnap is always checking in on him. He can’t count the number of times that Sapnap has helped him through rough times.

Sapnap: you okay?

Sapnap: your talk about george sounded too sincere, like you actually wrote a love letter

Sapnap: youve never said anything like that

Sapnap: also do i actually owe you money for that

 _No, I'm not okay,_ Dream wants to respond, _I just realized that I’ve fallen for one of my best friends._ He goes to type it out, but his fingers waver over his keyboard. He can’t bring himself to answer. Instead, he turns off his computer.

Rubbing his screen-strained eyes, he reaches to lift the blinds covering the window next to his desk. The soft moonlight spills into his room. Then, he opens the window and feels the cool night breeze run over his skin. Birds call off in the distance, singing lonesome songs into the empty night. The moon’s silvery surface smiles down at him, a crescent shape that’s all too familiar. 

He rests himself on the windowsill. For a moment, he imagines what it’d be like to share this moment with George. He would give it all up—the fame, the money, the community—if he could just see George. He sighs. _You must have these nights, too. With the guiding stars and unhurried night. On these nights, George, do you think about me in the same way that I think about you? Do you, too, feel our connection, bound by our mutual affections and admirations?_

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” 

Dream turns to see George at his side. George’s gaze is fixed upon the moon, his eyes glassy as they reflect the night sky. An ethereal halo of moonlight drapes itself around him. His appearance is almost spectral, as if a gust of wind could whisk him away.

Dream breathes, “George? Is it really you?”

George laughs softly, different from his laughs on stream. It’s softer, sweeter. More real. “Dream, you know who I am.”

Dream is overwhelmed by an emotion that he can’t name. His heart aches. “It can’t be you. It’s just my imagination.”

George turns to face him with a knowing smile. His hands are clasped together behind his back, his shirt rustling in the wind. He tilts his head, affection lighting up his eyes as he whispers, “Would your imagination do this?”

George leans in and kisses him. Dream falters for a moment, but then he closes his eyes and kisses back. He tilts his head to match George’s, lightly pushing forwards with his lips. He reaches out and brushes the cool skin of George’s cheek, just as he imagined doing earlier. With his other hand, he reaches out to grasp one of George’s hands. Their fingers lace together in an instant, fitting together just as perfectly as their lips. Dream knows that it’s little more than a fabrication of his mind, but their gentle embrace feels all too real with the wind rushing past them and the moonlight shining upon them. Their kiss is innocent, almost chaste under the clear night sky.

George pulls away, dropping his hand from Dream’s. As Dream opens his eyes, he sees that everything about George is unspeakably perfect. It’s then that he recognizes it, in the warmness of George’s gaze and the coolness of his touch. The nameless emotion. _Love._ Dream stands breathless, his words escaping him. “George—”

“Shh.” George picks a red pen off of the desk and holds it out to Dream. “You know what to do with this.”

Dream’s eyes fall upon the notebook left open on his desk. Moonlight pools on it, illuminating its blank lines. He remembers what he was going to write in it: hundreds of words, all to George and George alone. Perhaps it was going to be a love confession, perhaps it was going to be an apology, or perhaps it was going to straddle the thin line between the two. 

He feels hesitant; a part of him doesn’t want to write down his words, as if they would engrave his desires into an agonizing part of reality. His focus shifts between the notebook and George. George nods encouragingly, his ever-present smile dripping with sweetness. And looking at that smile, Dream knows that he needs to write down his thoughts. He picks the pen from George’s hand in the same way that he would pick a flower: delicately, as if gripping it too tightly would shatter the moment. And in a just few graceful strokes, he organizes a thousand restless thoughts into six simple words:

_I think I love you, George._

George traces the letters with a thin finger, smudging the ink as he does. When Dream looks up from his notebook to see George’s face once more, he’s gone. Dust floats through the air where he used to be, particles dancing in the moonlight.

* * *

Drowning in memories, half-torn paper in his grip, Dream collapses to his knees. He forgot about it for a reason; his conscience repressed it, an act of self-preservation against a love that could never be. But now, his feelings are undeniable. A million other crumpled papers surround him, and he already knows that all of them read the same thing. And as the crescent moon shines its gentle light upon the frantic red letters on the paper and the fatal red lines on his hand, Dream reads and rereads the six words. 

_I think I love you, George._

_I think I love you, George._

_I think I love you, George._

And then, he whispers them to himself.

“I think I love you, George.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept forgetting to upload this one, sorry it's a little late!! I came into it without much of an outline in mind, so I hope it's not too chaotic. And if you've read this far, thank you ^-^

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work I've ever written. If all goes well, I'll be posting updates weekly.


End file.
